


for whither thou goest

by edenbound



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Demisexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human politics suck, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 11:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20425541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: Crowley has concerns about human politics. Aziraphale has concerns about Crowley's blood pressure (metaphorically speaking). Kissing is good for comfort, right?





	for whither thou goest

**Author's Note:**

> British politics are giving me a freaking heart attack. As well as writing to MPs, signing petitions, going to rallies, etc, I do advocate the importance of taking care of yourself and remembering to have joy. So here is a fic which mentions no specific politics and is meant as a moment's distraction.
> 
> For those who might be following my fics for ace or genderqueer rep, none of that is totally explicit in this fic but my Crowley is always non-binary and this specific version of Aziraphale is demisexual.

"Everything is a mess," Crowley announces, stalking into the bookshop. Aziraphale casts an eye over him and immediately diagnoses 'human politics', as opposed to 'celestial or infernal issues' or 'another apocalypse'. Not, of course, that that changes the severity of the issue -- they both care about humans, disclaim it as Crowley might try, and the things humans do to themselves are far more labyrinthine, difficult to predict, hard to interpret and impossible to prevent.

"What is it, dearest?" he asks, both concerned (for the humans) and achingly fond (of both the humans and mostly, admittedly, of Crowley).

Crowley wasn't carrying a newspaper when he walked into the shop, but one materialises for the purpose of being dramatically slapped down across Aziraphale's desk space. "Politics," he spits.

Aziraphale takes a look at the paper and takes a deep breath. The headline splashed across it is certainly cause for concern, and Aziraphale has no doubt that he will spend significant time worrying about this himself. Has already been worrying about it, vaguely, trying not to obsess too much over things with which it doesn't seem right to intervene. Trying not to come up with ways to thwart this, as if it _were_ some infernal plot (though he knows it is not), and coming up short because... humans will be humans. They're doing this to themselves... In any case, right now he has more important concerns, and that is the fine tremor running through Crowley's body, the strain on his dear face.

Aziraphale doesn't have much practice with this -- has never wanted practice with this, because he has never properly acknowledged that he has these feelings for Crowley, and has certainly never had them for anyone _else_, and that fact for him has always completely precluded any physical involvement. However, extensive novel-reading and the promptings of that long-suppressed fondness suggest to him a way to distract and soothe Crowley. (A stirring in the pit of his stomach suggests to him that it will, in fact, be quite effectively distracting for himself as well.) He reaches up and gently plucks the ridiculous sunglasses from Crowley's face.

"My dear," he says, gently, "you know we can't change human politics."

"Maybe we should," Crowley argues. Aziraphale touches the sharp angle of his jaw, humming out a thoughtful noise. Why have they never done this? It's suddenly the easiest thing in the world to touch Crowley, and it's also very apparent that he should have been doing this all along, for years and years if not centuries. Perhaps for millennia. 

However, Crowley is trembling under his hand, and Aziraphale is not _entirely_ sure if it is his actions or the barely-contained rage that covers despair which Crowley was already wearing when he walked into the shop. He lowers his hand a little. "I wanted to -- is this alright?"

"_Now_?" Crowley asks, incredulous. "You finally -- _now_?"

"We can talk about human politics when you're calm," Aziraphale says, firmly. "If we're going to meddle in human politics, then we need to have a proper plan. No going off half-cocked."

"And you want to calm me down by..."

"Kissing you quite thoroughly. Is that alright?"

Aziraphale watches Crowley's adam's apple bob as he swallows hard, watches the tension in his body _changing_, watches (with pleasure at having thought to get those darn sunglasses out of the way before now) Crowley's pupils dilate. He doesn't wait for the spoken _yes_, not when Crowley's whole body screams it like that, not when he can taste the sudden overwhelmed and overwhelming helpless _love_ that Crowley is -- finally -- daring to let free. He cups Crowley's jaw in a firm hand and covers that tempting mouth with his own. 

It's -- it isn't perfect, but that makes it so; it is awkward and strange and new, and Aziraphale is tingling all over as he finds a better angle, as he finds himself fisting a hand in Crowley's hair to tilt Crowley's head just the way he needs it. Crowley is making little noises he can't possibly be conscious of -- tiny noises, huffs of breath and then an urgent noise in the back of his throat, and -- Aziraphale backs Crowley into the wall, holds him there firmly, because this is perfect and Aziraphale knows just how to make it better. He is unwilling to stop kissing Crowley, and thankfully he seems on board with that as well, his arms finally coming around Aziraphale and holding onto him just as tightly, just as urgently.

"My dear -- " Aziraphale tries to say, but Crowley's mouth is on his again, drinking down the words, taking and taking everything Aziraphale wants so eagerly to give, has wanted so ardently in the depths of his soul for far, far too long.

When they do finally pull away, Aziraphale feels... shaken to his core, entirely changed, transmuted by those kisses. He feels glorious. 

"I'm not sure I'm actually _calm_," Crowley says. He looks as dazed as Aziraphale feels, his lips curving into a smile that looks as helpless and irresistible as the feelings tangling themselves in Aziraphale's chest.

"You're definitely distracted, though," Aziraphale points out. He uses Crowley's necklace thing (he's never been quite clear on what half of Crowley's fashion choices are _for_) to pull him down very firmly into another kiss. He tries to say it with his kiss, with his hands on Crowley -- not _everything will be okay_, because perhaps it won't, but _I'm with you now, now and always_ \-- and he knows that he is being answered in kind by the feverish clutch of Crowley's hands, the sweet heat of his mouth.


End file.
